Arrest
by Questioning.Silence
Summary: Team Gibbs can be considered a little unorthodox, but what happens when they meet someone who takes "unorthodox" to a whole new level? It's inter-agency cooperation at its best. Possibly a crack-fic?
1. Chapter 1

_"You are under arrest."_

Great. I hate that little sentence. And I've heard it way too often for my tastes. I wonder if NCIS knows how many times they've actually arrested me.

Don't get me wrong; it's not as though I get in trouble a lot for stuff I shouldn't do. I end up getting in trouble for stuff that I should do. Or, technically, most of my activities are against the law, but it doesn't really bother me. I work undercover. I get arrested a lot.

By this time a brown-haired male agent has me handcuffed and in the back of the NCIS truck. Lovely. Nothing I like more than a nice little vacation in the back of a big white truck that is typically used to transport corpses.

The CIA isn't supposed to operate within our own country's borders. Not technically, anyway. But we do, occasionally. Unfortunately, my boss can't admit that he sent me to do whatever illegal activity I am arrested for. So, I get to find my own way out of jail. It's actually quite entertaining.

Each time I am arrested, I try to act like a completely different person so that they don't realize that I am a regular 'guest' to their interrogation facilities. It's not easy, of course. My fingerprints aren't registered, but each time I have to hack into the system to delete the fingerprints that they've added that day. DNA, too. And then there's personality. That bit is fun.

Okay, I'll admit that my idea of 'fun' is a bit different than most people's…

Last time I wore purple hair extensions and refused to speak. Literally. Fell asleep on the ride over, didn't ask for a lawyer, and wouldn't say my name, shuffled sullenly as I walked, just watched them with my arms crossed. It was great. Coffee-man, an elderly grey-haired man who appears to be the team's leader, was particularly annoyed. He ended up throwing a chair across the room. When it knocked a huge dent in the wall, he was even less happy. It was shortly after that that the same man who handcuffed me today entered. He wouldn't shut up. Talked about movies until I would have liked to break or quite possibly even remove a couple of his limbs.

Or the time that I wore a pink sweater and matching miniskirt. I wouldn't stop demanding a lawyer, and even when they provided one I wouldn't shut up. Repeating over and over again that I was minding my own business and who did they think they were to keep me here? The bespectacled, slightly pudgy man interrogating me appeared terrified. I recognized him as a really famous author. Gemcity, or some other made-up name. Then they sent in a woman, long dark hair and a foreign accent, looked like a ninja. When she threatened me, I started to scream and wouldn't stop. They let me go soon after that.

But I'm almost to the Navy Yard by now. What to do this time? Should I go for the 'spaz' approach? Works every time. Or perhaps the more believable 'sarcasm in the extreme' approach?

Ah, we have arrived. Ninja is here to escort me to interrogation. I make my eyes go wide. "Hi," I say really fast. I've decided on the 'dangerously unhinged' personality.

She looks at me as though I may pounce. "Hello."

"Where'rewegoing?" I am still speaking as quickly as I can.

"I cannot understand you," she says hesitantly.

"Oh." I try to sound extremely disappointed, "CanIhavesomenachos, please?"

"What?" she snaps.

"Nach-os," I say loudly and slowly, in that stereotypical American-speak-loudly-in-English-and-foreigner-understand voice.

She glares at me and opens the door to the second interrogation room. I waltz inside.

Now they will make me wait. It is a critical part of the interrogation process. If I were guilty, I might appear nervous, convinced that they knew that I was guilty, and, if I were weak-minded, I would probably jump all over them the moment that they appeared, spilling out my life's story. Well, ha, I'm not. So let them watch me.

I tilt my chair back on two legs and put my feet up on the table. I start playing with my fingernails. I tap out different rhythms on the table. I pull a Chewy bar from my purse and make it last for ten minutes. I can almost feel their eyes boring into me from behind the two-way glass. _Hi._ I tap on the table in Morse code. _How are you all doing back there?_

TV dude comes a few moments later. So they did understand me then. Ha ha. I love messing with people's minds.

"Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo," he introduces himself.

I cock my head to the side and narrow my eyes.

"What's your name?" he prompts me.

"Carrie."

"Carrie...?" he fishes for my last name. I nod and smile brightly.

He finally gives up that line of questioning. "Well now Carrie, a suspect matching your general description was spotted fleeing a naval officer's home in which a robbery took place about a week ago. And now today we got a call from a neighbor who said that you appeared to be observing their house for hours. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Idiots. If I were to actually break into a house, I wouldn't be nearly so obvious about it. "I wasn't doing anything like that," I say calmly, "I was driving into town and my boss called me on my cell. I pulled over. I'm a very responsible driver sir." I smile earnestly.

He smirks, "And that took up 'hours'?"

"No, he wanted some paperwork turned in by three," I look dramatically at my watch, "and it is certainly overdue by now. I thought that I might have an excuse if I blamed it on car troubles."

"And your resemblance to the robber?"

I shake my head sadly, "There are six billion people in this world. Go figure."

He stares at me steadily. I smile blandly. My arguments are weak, but he is running out of angles to take this interrogation and we both know that.

See, this is why I hate interrogating someone. I've had to before as just a routine part of the job. However, given the choice, I prefer to interrogate someone in a quiet little out-of-the-way place. There are a great many perks to doing so: 1. There's not as much fuss about the Geneva Convention, 2. It's so much faster, and 3. You don't have to clean up afterward or worry about little niceties like 'warrants' and 'police brutality. After all, 'torture' is such an ugly word. I like the term 'persuasion' so much better.

"How do you know Morse code?" he asks.

"I was bored one day."

He abruptly stands up and leaves the room. Yay me. I win.

Or, unfortunately not. Ninja and coffee-man have just entered the room. She doesn't look very happy.

Time for part dos of my little game. I chew furiously on my fingernails. Biting my thumbnail down below the quick makes my eyes water. I play up on this, letting my eyes fill with tears.

"It wasn't me!" I blubber hysterically. "I didn't steal anything! I promise!"

I reach across the table to clutch at their hands. They pull back in disgust. I bring my knees up in front of me and press my forehead to them, rocking back and forth and sobbing.

They aren't doing anything, just watching me. I'm running out of fake tears. I redouble my sniveling, shaking so hard that I fall off the chair. On the floor I curl up into a ball and bury my face in my hands.

I can hear the door to my right bang open. I don't look up.

"Jessica Whitman, get up right now by order of the director of the CIA."

Surprise. Well, that puts a damper on things. If they knew this the whole time and just let me make a fool of myself, I'm going to be furious. My head snaps up.

A red-haired woman is looking down at me, with TV standing behind her. "Can I help you ma'am?" I ask politely, as though there aren't tears streaked down my face and I haven't been harassing her agents.

She seems amused. "Yes. You can get off the floor." I comply while she studies me closely. "You didn't rob that house, did you?" It isn't specifically a question.

I answer anyway, "No."

"Your recent activities are probably far more illegal, right?" Again, not really a question.

"You say 'illegal,' I say 'don't get caught.' Tomato, toh-mah-toe."

She lets that pass unchallenged. "Your boss has agreed to let NCIS 'borrow' you for the rest of the day. We have a case that we think you may be able to help us with. It's really the least you can do for our silence," she finishes quietly.

I nod abruptly.

"Good. Agent Gibbs, Officer David, meet your newest lead in the Menden case." She waves her hand over in my general direction.

This should be interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

_I had never planned to continue this story. However, several reviewers mentioned it, and I found that I rather liked the idea. So I hope that you enjoy this second chapter. _

They all stare at me like I'm crazy. It's quite entertaining, actually. I'm probably about 85 percent sure that I'm not. Crazy, that is. But really, who truly knows? Maybe I'm locked up in a padded white cell and everyone and everything that I see are all just fragments of my imagination gone wrong. Depressing thought… although now that I think about it, it might actually be fun to be crazy. Aside from the slightly annoying little inconvenience of people trying to lock you up in an asylum or some such ridiculous notion, you could come up with a diabolical plan to escape and then wreak havoc upon the world. All entirely hypothetically speaking, of course. But I digress.

Why, you ask, are they staring at me like I'm crazy in the first place? It's a rather long story, but it may have to do with the fact that I'm practically hyperventilating over my chipped nail. But, hey, manicures are terribly expensive these days.

To start off, I was quite irritated. See, I actually cared about Menden. Kinda. Sort of. A little. Okay, not really, considering that he was always a jerk to me. (Although, strictly speaking that may have something to do with the fact that I spiked his drink at the office Christmas party so that he didn't have any recollection of dancing on top of some tables to Michael Jackson's _Thriller_.) Anyways, he was a good guy. And now he's pushing up daisies. _"The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…"_ This might be why I'm only 85 percent sure that I'm not crazy. Food for thought.

In addition, there was no way that I was going to let some NCIS agents boss me around and figure that they knew me. Also, I really wanted to get back to my house. I do have a life, you know, and "life" currently has to do with a date at 9:00. So it's entirely possible that I might have continued my little psychotic bipolar act in an attempt to get sent home early. Yeah… ahem… cough… cough… So about earlier, it happened something like this…

The Redhead is still standing over me. El Señor Hyped-up-on-Coffee is still glaring at me. Ninja is still ready to kill me. TV is… well, grinning madly. I find that rather disturbing. So says the pot to the kettle.

Director Red Riding Hood rolls her eyes, "Your director told me that you've worked with Menden before."

"Did he?" I ask mildly.

"Have you?" she asks flatly, in a tone that would terrify any lesser person.

"If he says so," I shrugged, aiming for a slightly confused, slightly indifferent pose.

Her eyes flash green fire but her tone is moderate. "I'll take that as a yes. As you probably know, Officer Menden was gunned down yesterday in front of a Fairfax convenience store. NCIS has identified those we believe to be responsible, and we're now conducting surveillance on those individuals. You will partner with Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and Officer David and Agent Gibbs will be the other team while our Agent McGee and Scientist Sciuto function as technical support. Your job is to watch, report, and then stand down when we decide to bring in the SWAT teams."

"Why me?" I demand insolently.

"Because you continually plague NCIS and waste our resources. It's either cooperate with us, or get your boss into a whole lot of trouble. And I don't think he'll appreciate that. You might just have to go looking for a new job in that case."

Darn. She got me there. See, no one is really willing to hire someone with a huge, unexplainable gap in their employment history. A gap that, in reality, involves working in clandestine government operations. I nod my head, "Yes, ma'am," I drawl with a highly overdone Southern accent.

"This exercise is routine. There is no room for improvisation." Does she think I'll pull a stupid stunt? Hah, she just met me and she already knows me too well.

She leaves. My new team looks at me. This was not how I'd envisioned this day turning out. There were a lot fewer evil glares in the imaginary reality. In silence, we leave Interrogation and head to their office.

It's only now that I realize that I'm wearing a jean miniskirt covered with sequins and a leather vest, while my eyes are puffy and red from my earlier little… eh… exercise in conveying theatrical emotions. (There, that sounds nice, doesn't it? "Tantrum" is so judgmental.)

I quickly detour to the bathroom, where I pull out my emergency change of clothes from my bag. They're nothing fancy but standard formal business wear. I let my blonde hair down from its high, teased ponytail and brush it out. Let's see what those silly cops think of me now.

Well, apparently they don't think anything. They sit in their desks, maintaining a steadfast silence. I'm left standing a bit awkwardly in the middle of the "bullpen." Bor-ing.

Mr. Techie/Gemcity flinches as I step closer, my heels clicking on the floor, but he refuses to look at me. This snobbish rigmarole was obviously planned in advance. Well, two can play at that game.

"Hey," I say flirtily, coming up beside the poor guy.

He flushes and glances up, gaping in surprise at my change in appearance. I changed from call girl to hot professional in a matter of seconds. Yup, I am so good at this.

"Do you mind?" I ask innocently, leaning closer. He blinks in confusion, and I take the opportunity to tip him from his chair. "Thank you," I smile, or rather smirk, leading the chair into the middle of the aisle, in between the four desks.

The boss's jaw clenches slightly, but there's no other reaction except one of bewilderment from the agent whose chair I just confiscated.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a DS. Slumping sideways into the chair, which is quite comfy by the way, I prop my feet up on the edge of one of the armrests. Soon I'm happily racing away on Super Mario Kart.

Now Ninja is watching me as if I'm going to spring and rabidly attack. So I smile. She studies me for a moment more and super-casually returns to her work. Score one for the lunatic.

I really need to up the anty if I'm going to get out of here any time soon. See, now if there was a musical soundtrack for my life, the Jeopardy theme song would be perfect right here. Played at a deafening volume in the boss's ears, of course. Hmm… The more that I think about it, though, I believe a nice Lady GaGa song with a catchy beat would do just as well. That is, if there is such thing as a "nice" Lady GaGa song.

The phone rings. Grumpy picks up the phone, barks into it, and predictably slams it down a second later.

"Let's go," he snaps, yanking out his weapon and heading for the elevator.

"And we're off," mutters my soon-to-be partner.

"…to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz," I sing quietly, "who will hopefully lead us to some lovely perpetrators of violent crimes so that we can extradite them or ship them off to some third-world country in a little box. Or several as the case may be."

Wow. I didn't know that I could sing that much in one breath. Nor, it appears, did what's-his-face… DiNutso.

"Oo-kay, then," he mutters.

As we all pile into the tin can elevator, my partner is still cramming his handgun into his holster.

"Is _that_ all you're bringing?" I ask irritably. I haven't tried my irritable tone today, so it's kind of refreshing. Hysterical and insane were getting on my nerves.

"Uh, yeah," he raises one eyebrow as I stick my hand out imperiously. He reluctantly drops the toy into my palm.

"You don't have anything else?" I ask derisively.

He blinks several times in rapid succession. "I do have a knife, you know," he appears quite offended.

"Yeah… I was hoping for something with a little more firepower. Are you going to shoot Tinkerbell with this thing?" I sigh, "Just, try to stay behind me and don't attract too much attention."

His boss reaches over and angrily plucks the gun from my hand and slams it into his agent's.

"Wait, you mean you're carrying? Like, a weapon?" Nut-job gawks.

"I believe the term is 'duh.'"

"How did you get it into Interrogation? I mean, isn't it protocol to drag you through a metal detector.. And a pat down… sometimes drug dogs…"

"Get 'it' into Interrogation? 'It' implies only one," I say smoothly as the elevators doors open. As we file out, he stands there, stunned. "Come on, DiNutso," I call, not bothering to turn around.


	3. Chapter 3

As we pile into the van, a woman's cheerful face pops onto the television embedded in the back of the driver's seat. She has black pigtails, heavy eye-makeup, and several tattoos, from what I can see. It all screams "Whack Job!" quite clearly.

"Hey guys," she practically bubbles with enthusiasm. It's highly distasteful. "So, the director gave me the details of this recon mission. The CIA chick and Tony are going to pose as a couple for Suspect One. He's heading off to some fancy restaurant or something. Ziva and Gibbs get the second guy. He's at home, so it'll just be a classic stake-out for now."

"Of course Tony gets the fun job," mutters an obviously bitter Ninja.

"Yeah right," he returns, " I have to _date_ her." He motions with his shoulder at me.

Come on, I mean, I'm right here for crying out loud. For some reason, though, I think that he already knows that.

"Actually, the last person I dated was the King of England," I cut in.

"England doesn't have a king," snaps the Israeli quickly.

"Yes, but he didn't know that at the time," I reply quite seriously as she stares at me askance.

We arrive at the restaurant.

"Oh goody," my eccentric partner states, "I love this place."

Bad idea. I'm wearing a work suit and this is basically the premiere restaurant for thirty square miles. This is going to be a long, long day. And it's only five o'clock.

Two hours later we're tired and hungry. The restaurant screws up our order, and by the time they fix it, Suspect One, S.O. for short, is finishing up.

If you don't mind, I think that I'll briefly insert an ad for the Agency right now. Ladies, what other job teaches you how to disable an obnoxious playboy federal agent in 2.4 seconds? Exactly. So come and join the CIA, the world's most kick-butt training agency.

As a result of my certifiably awesome training, the fight between me and Nutty about who gets to drive as we follow S.O. is predictable and short.

A BMW. Me like. DiNozzo is slumped in the passenger side seat. He should regain consciousness any minute.

Ah, on cue. The whining begins.

"Shut up or I'll knock you out again," I snap. A new personality. The serious officer who plays by her own rules.

"What are you doing?" he whines.

"What did I tell you about whining?" I say with a smile in a singsong tone.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"Tailing our suspect down a random dirt road in this super-awesome BMW. Although," I frown thoughtfully, "S.O. does have a Ferrari. I think he's one-upped me there.

"S.O.? What the h*** is that?"

"Tsk, tsk. Language, my good fellow. S.O. Suspect One… Come to think of it, though, that's boring. Spiky Octopus, or maybe Slain Organism."

"S.O. works great," he cuts in.

Hah. I thought you'd see it that way.

"Oops, there he goes!" The sun has nearly set, and S.O hasn't done me the favor of turning his taillights on. If I don't move quickly, I'm going to lose him. I floor the gas pedal. My lead foot has always come in handy although I quite nearly failed Driver's Ed as a teenager.

Now please take a moment out of your busy schedules to commiserate with me here for a brief moment. It was getting dark. I was trailing an impressive foreign car. I was hungry, tired, and partnered with an annoying little man named DiNutso. Cut me some slack, will you? People are so judgmental these days.

He begins to scream, and I seriously consider shooting him with his own weapon. I settle for punching him in the side of the head.

"We're supposed to do surveillance and—"

He stops speaking as I swerve hard to avoid a pothole that, at my current speed, would probably rip the suspension right out of this cute little BMW. As I pull out of the impromptu little turn, G-force sends his head smacking into the side of his door.

Unfortunately I miscalculate the force. Instead of shutting him up permanently, he just finds something new to whine about.

"My nose! You're worse than Ziva! And WE'RE SUPPOSED TO PERFORM SURVEILLANCE, NOT CHASE THIS GUY DOWN!" He's screaming once again. It's rather annoying, actually.

"Yeah, well that was until he started employing evasion tactics. Now he's on to us and I consider murderers of CIA officers to be flight risks."

What follows is a fairly routine exercise. I ram the Ferrari off the road and into a tree, catch the fleeing suspect with a flying tackle, cuff the dude, and stick him in the trunk. He starts to cry.

Shame about that nice car, though. It's now one with the universe. And the tree.

Our return is less than triumphant. In my defense, though, how can a girl possibly defend herself when her own partner's first words to the boss are:

"She's the devil in disguise," he growls angrily, stumping to his chair. His left hand holds an ice pack to his nose.

"No, I'm just his apprentice," I respond winningly.

We are all back in their 'bullpen.' After I nabbed S.O, the other team had to grab S.O2 so that he wouldn't bolt.

"You disobeyed my orders!" says el jefe, coffee cup clenched firmly in his grasp while he gives me the death glare.

"In light of new evidence, I employed creative license."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes," I smile

They wait for me to continue. I just smile.

"And?" he growls.

"I believe I'll keep that to myself. Find probable cause on your own. Make it up or something. I've seen your file; you've done it before. We have the shmucks, and you get to find out who hired them, blah de blah. I'm going home."

I turn to leave. For some reason, though, they don't seem too thrilled. And really, I'm at a loss to explain why. I have pulled every annoying stunt in the book.

Anyway, my infuriating partner grabs my shoulder as I turn away. But I don't like that. So… I twist his wrist backwards and flip him onto the floor. One of my nails catches on his shirt. As a result of biting it earlier in Interrogation, it's weak and snaps.

So, cut to the beginning of the second chapter in this little narration. They're staring at me like I'm crazy and I'm ranting angrily over my chipped nail.

I should definitely have stayed in bed this morning.


	4. Chapter 4

"Do have any idea how expensive manicures are anymore?" I snarl at TV's prone figure. "I had my nails done only this morning! So they remained presentable for only…" I peer at my watch, "ten hours. Pathetic."

Wait a second… &#%%!#$!

It's 8:45. There goes my date. I spent all day trying to make these morons angry enough to get rid of me. And I _failed._ I do not _fail. _These people are just really, really, really thick-skinned.

This is really one of those moments that makes you look back on your life. You debate the futility of railing against fate and resolve to be more flexible in the future. Or you just get really ticked off. I choose the second option.

DiNutso is getting up from the floor. My foot twitches almost imperceptibly and he falls back down. I whirl around and sit on McGoober's desk, flipping open my cell phone and dialing my fiancé's number.

"Hey Brett," I say, completely normal for the first time this entire day, "I'm going to have to cancel tonight. Unexpected work emergency."

He's not thrilled, but he does have a sense of humor. I can't stand people without a sense of humor. I can tell he's smiling when he replies "Top-secret, don't-ask-me-or-I'll-have-to-kill-you type of thing?"

"Don't ask don't tell," I reply, "Without the politics." Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the Director coming down the stairs with a man that I recognize immediately as the Secretary of the Navy. Uh-oh. "I gotta go," I mutter, hanging up quickly as they approach. I slide casually off Techie's desk so that I'm only leaning against it now.

"Which one of you is Whitman?" barks the Secretary.

"That would be me, sir," I step forward and nod my head politely.

"CIA?"

"Yes."

"You cooperated with NCIS today to track the men involved in the hit of a CIA officer?"

I wouldn't exactly call it cooperating, but I'm not here to argue semantics.

"Yes sir," I respond smoothly.

"What's this I hear about you apprehending the suspect?" He's not angry; he seems to be testing me.

"I do apologize for that, sir," I reply, ignoring DiNutso's light snort, "However, I believe it was necessary."

"You think you know better than the experts who wanted him to be merely followed?"

"No, sir, but in light of new information gained while following those orders, I made a judgment call. In the restaurant, I noticed a marked resemblance of the suspect to a man wanted by my agency for five years, now. We had thought that he altered his facial features surgically, but had no confirmed reports," I hesitate for dramatic effect, "His eyes were rather distinctive, though, and I was nearly certain that it was him. Later, our suspect was employing discreet tactics on the road, tactics designed to make a tailing car quite obvious. When he resorted to certain distinctive, more flamboyant moves, I knew that my earlier suspicions were, in fact, correct. I decided to stop him. I don't doubt that he would have fled underground if given a moment's hesitation.

"Frankly, sir, neither of our agencies has the resources necessary to chase each criminal down multiple times. If you believe that his arrest will reflect badly upon NCIS, I am certain that my agency will take the man, his partner, and the fall-out, if there is any. I don't believe there will be." I finish smoothly.

He studies me closely, "The CIA has a shoot first and ask questions later policy, yes?"

Not exactly. But he isn't interested in hearing that, so I smile apologetically, "We are trained that way, sir. Again, I do apologize for not following NCIS protocol, but I did what I believe was necessary."

"Very well, Officer Whitman, I'm impressed. Don't worry, NCIS will take full responsibility for the arrest of the men."

He means he'll take the credit.

"I'm sure it was an enlightening experience for representatives from the CIA and NCIS to work together," he continues.

He means that it was a necessary evil. I can hear DiNutso grind his teeth from across the room.

The Secretary blathers on, "Perhaps this will lead to greater cooperation in the future. Inter-fighting between agencies is terrible inconvenience."

He means that he wants information from us but he doesn't plan to return the favor.

"Hopefully so, sir," I reply, "When governmental agencies don't get along, the ones that truly suffer are the American people." I had intended to sound a little cheesy and a suck-up, but this is painful. I struggle not to grimace.

He nods, "Thank you, Officer Whitman. I'm sure you've greatly aided the investigation today. You may leave now and return to your agency with my thanks."

He means get out of my hair.

"Thank _you_, sir."

He turns and heads for the elevator without another word. Director Red and the rest of the team stare at me.

"Where did that come from?" asks DiNutso in disgust.

"Politicians are so easy to manipulate," I shake my head with mock sadness. A moment later I yawn and stretch, producing a popping sound from my knuckles and spine. My wicked smile slides back onto my face. "It was a pleasure working with you all. Especially you, DiNutso."

"It's _DiNozzo_," he growls.

I feign shock, "Oh dear, and I've been calling you DiNutso all day now. Why didn't you tell me before?"

There's no response. I smile sweetly.

"Well, goodbye then," I say as I saunter towards the elevator.

"Good-_bye!_" mutters Ninja.

"Good riddance," snaps DiNutso.

"She's a freak," says McTechie.

The elevator doors close. I grin. Poor NCIS; they don't know what's coming. I just received a text from one of my colleagues. The NCIS criminal response team is coming over to Langley in a week's time to help on one of our cases. I'll get to see my lovely new friends again. They think that _I'm_ crazy. Wait until they meet the rest of my coworkers.

Those agents won't know what hit them.


End file.
